Perspective: Zhuge Han
Perhaps among my many brothers and sisters — and there were many — few truly knew about the Black Swans.
But I did.
It was one of the few privileges of being the son of a general of the Empire.
Since childhood, even without meaning to, I ended up overhearing things that weren't supposed to be said outside military tents.
Fragments of reports, muffled conversations behind jade walls, or the distant sound of officers whispering about "operations that didn't exist."
Of all those secrets, the one that impressed me most as a child was the name of that unit — the Black Swans.
The elite of the elite.
A force that answered directly to the Emperor — and to no one else.
A handful of agents trained to act where the army itself could never be seen.
Spies, assassins, messengers of silence.
At the time, I thought it fascinating.
The kind of story that makes a young prince's heart race — something between the heroic and the forbidden.
But that night, I realized how different it is to hear about a shadow… and to face one.
Standing before me, in the middle of my room, was a woman.
There was no doubt — a member of the Black Swans.
The faint glow of the spirit lamp flickered across the metallic edges of her attire.
At first, she seemed part of the darkness itself.
But slowly, as my vision adjusted, the details began to emerge — and with them, the certainty that I was looking at something no ordinary person should ever see.
Black dominated her figure, but not a flat, lifeless black — it was layered, shifting between the sheen of coal and the depth of the void.
The fabric moved with an unnatural grace, clinging to her form as if alive, as though the very Qi of the room was being absorbed by it.
Every seam carried intent.
On the sleeves, tiny golden threads formed runes barely visible to the naked eye; at the edges of her cloak hung thin crimson pendants — like droplets of crystallized blood.
Her waist was bound by several belts — each one fastened with golden buckles, holding not just fabric but secrets.
Her eyes were the first thing that struck me.
Blue — deep and burning, like embers without heat.
They studied me in silence, without haste, as if they'd known me for a long time.
There was no hatred in them, no anger — only a cold serenity, the kind born of carrying out inevitable duties.
The black veil that covered half her face revealed just enough to suggest what it concealed.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with the glow of porcelain.
The line of her jaw was sharp, and above it, a small red gem-shaped adornment marked the center of her forehead, reflecting the lamplight with a restrained, ritualistic shimmer.
Her hair — long, thick, and as dark as midnight — fell in disciplined waves to her waist.
A few strands were held by delicate golden ornaments shaped like crescent moons and miniature blades.
Nothing about her appearance was random.
Everything was symbolic.
Everything wove beauty and threat together, threads of the same pattern.
The reinforced shoulder guards of her attire, etched with faint inscriptions, marked her as something more than an infiltrator.
It was the full uniform — the Black Swan battle attire.
Even the buckles' design and the shape of the blades at her waist hinted at a level of customization granted to very few warriors.
She exuded discipline.
Silent strength.
And a kind of calm that isn't learned on the battlefield — but on missions where one mistake means the erasure of your very name.
For a moment, I stood motionless.
Not out of fear — but out of recognition.
I knew what she was.
And I knew nothing good ever came when a Black Swan appeared unannounced.
The woman didn't speak.
She didn't even seem to breathe.
The air around her was frozen — caught in the moment she appeared.
And only then, between the faint wind outside and the trembling flame of the lamp, did I feel it — the chill that reached all the way to my bones.
It's easy to hear stories about a unit born of shadows.
But to see one of its members before you…
is to stare into the Empire itself — staring back.
She didn't move for a long while.
The silence between us felt like a wall — dense, solid, made of unspoken intentions.
The only sound I could hear was my own heartbeat — slow at first, then faster, as if trying to match the tempo she seemed to control just by looking at me.
Her eyes didn't blink.
That stillness was unsettling, and yet there was no aggression in it — only observation.
As if she were measuring something, testing how long the blood of a Zhuge could remain steady before faltering.
And perhaps that was exactly what it was.
A test.
One of the many the Empire imposed, silently, on those still living under its name.
The lamp's flame flickered again, throwing shifting shadows across her face.
The delicate lines of her veil and the golden runes of her outfit gleamed for a moment — and then, she moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like everything she did.
Her right hand — gloved in dark silk reinforced with braided fibers — slid into the folds of her cloak.
The motion was so precise it made no sound.
When her hand emerged, it held a small piece of paper, folded with geometric perfection.
No hesitation.
She simply extended it toward me.
No words.
No gestures.
Only the silent invitation for me to take it.
For a moment, I considered not doing it.
The stories about the Black Swans made one thing clear: they never delivered messages that could be ignored.
Every letter they carried was a verdict — sometimes of summons, sometimes of execution.
And I didn't know which awaited me.
But truthfully, refusing wouldn't change anything.
When the Empire decides to speak, silence ceases to be an option.
I reached out carefully.
The paper felt cold, almost damp to the touch — as if it had been stored under spiritual ice.
The texture was dense and firm, made from the rare fiber reserved for high-secrecy documents.
And then I saw what I hadn't expected.
On the folded edge, framed by a fine thread of hardened red wax, shone the imperial seal —
the Seal of the Dragon.
My brother's seal.
The golden symbol of the Zhuge dynasty, embossed upon the red wax, seemed to pulse under the flickering light, as if the Emperor himself were watching me from within.
It was unmistakable — that three-clawed dragon, coiled around the circle, the personal mark of the throne.
My chest tightened.
The air thinned.
The woman remained still, her hand still raised between us, watching me with the same calm, merciless gaze as before.
She didn't need to speak.
The seal spoke for her.
At that moment, I understood two things with absolute clarity:
first, that this letter was no ordinary message.
Even so, I closed my hand around the paper.
And the weight of the Empire fell upon my fingers.